


In the Mercy of Your Whisper

by Noclue Idunno (NoclueIdunno)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Lance (Voltron), Confessions, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Keith (Voltron), Dark Shiro (Voltron), Dubious Morality, Eventual Smut, M/M, Mafia Keith (Voltron), Moral Dilemmas, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pretty Lance (Voltron), Priest Lance (Voltron), Religion Kink, Religious Content, Roman Catholicism, Tall Keith (Voltron), Top Keith (Voltron), Top Shiro (Voltron), Yakuza Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23404504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoclueIdunno/pseuds/Noclue%20Idunno
Summary: "Keith!" the whisper turns frantic, "That was a murder! I never asked you to do it! Keith, you bloodied your hands, this is a mortal sin...""I've confessed it," says Keith, "Now absolve me. Absolve me, Padre, only a Sacrament can erase this sin. I did it for you."The whisper is now almost fully voiced, just a notch away from it. "Stop it!" Lance hisses, "Do you defy your priest?""Lance, I love you--"YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO POST THIS ON WATTPAD OR ANYWHERE ELSE. I NEVER WRITE ON WATTPAD. PLEASE, DEAR READERS, IF YOU SEE THIS STORY ELSEWHERE, REPORT IT. I WRITE ON AO3 AND AO3 ONLY.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron), Lance/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 291





	1. Il Paladino Nero

**Author's Note:**

> Voltron: Legendary Defenders is owned by its producers and writers. Copyright infringement not intended. I do not make any sort of income from this. This is a fanfiction offered freely to fans.

The indicator light of the confessional booth flashes green and an old lady emerges, a wrinkled hand on her shoulder to stop her dull cream shawl from sliding off. She reaches for the cane she left just beside the door, but her trembling hand misses the mark and she wobbles dangerously.

A man in jet-black, semi-casual suit supports the lady, preventing the unfortunate fall that her advanced age would no doubt have rendered disastrous.

"Are you alright, _signora_?" The man asks in heavily accented English. His voice is deep and weighted, but is not without kindness.

Yet the lady, upon looking up at the man's face, is visibly startled and pushes her way out of the confessional. In her hurried flight she forgets to genuflect to the Tabernacle and passes by the holy water font without blessing herself. If one were sitting on the pew closest to her trail, one would have heard her terrified whisper, _il Paladino Nero!_

As he watches the effect his presence had on the poor old dame, the man named _il Paladino Nero--_ Black Paladin--crosses himself slowly, looking upward at the mural of a fish on a pillar nearby. On its body is inscribed in Greek, ΙΧΘΥΣ.

The man crosses himself as he enters the confessional.

==========

The modernised confessional is silent within and without, its walls soundproofed and a light sconce illuminating its interior. There is a small latticed opening just enough for conversation to take place, but a black velvet curtain covers it from the other side.

When the man closes the door of his booth, the priest draws the curtain. Nothing is heard except the soft rustle of velvet and the click of the pin fixing the curtain to the side.

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit," says the Black Paladin, crossing himself again. " _Padre_ , I have sinned, sinned gravely..."

The whisper that comes from the other side is surprisingly youthful. "How long has it been since your last confession?"

"Four years, _Padre_ ," the man answers in a tone of absolute obedience.

A long silence ensues between them. With each passing second our Paladin seems to feel more and more ill at ease, knuckles brushing the lips and hands combing his raven black hair more than necessary. There is no sound that suggests something amiss from the priest's side, however.

The castigating silence is finally broken when the priest whispers an indifferent voice, "Speak, my son."

The kneeling man shudders as he hears the three words, as if they had struck the hollow place under his throat. When he recovers, he begins to speak in great relish, his contorted expression assuming a serene peace that makes itself evident the more he unloads his burden of damnation before the priest.

" _Padre_ , I shot that _coglione_ Lotor in his own armchair last week," the man says, a murderous triumph tinting his voice despite his attempt at contrition. "I painted the wall with his brains. The _bastardo_ had it coming, I gave him what he deserves... _Padre,_ I still haven't forgotten the day, Luis crying, Veronica and Marco dead on the floor... our vendetta is complete, now they can rest in peace."

His confession is terrible enough to scare the living daylights off of any other, but the priest merely breathes in so sharply that the penitent flinches.

"My son..." the priest whispers, his voice shaking, "I... I can't give you the penance, nothing will suffice... Your confession will remain sealed, but you must speak to the bishop, in this case..."

The man slams a hand on the lattice desperately. "No, wait, _Padre_ , please! The penance!"

The priest's reply is the black velvet curtain falling over the lattice.

The desolate man scrapes the wood of the lattice, but his fingernails aren't enough. He raises his voice in mixed confusion and sorrow, "Lance! Lance!"

Like a prayer answered, the name redraws the curtain. From the other side, a tortured voice carries across. "Keith," the whisper says, "You're in a sacred place. In this place I'm your priest."

"You are, you are, _Padre,_ of course." says Keith, gathering his hands for prayer, "Anything you say. But you're also my Lance, that will never change... Lance, I did it. No more nightmares. You don't have to live in fear anymore. You're free. I did this for you!"

"Keith!" the whisper turns frantic, "That was a murder! I never asked you to do it! Keith, you bloodied your hands, this is a mortal sin..."

"I've confessed it," says Keith, "Now absolve me. Absolve me, _Padre_ , only a Sacrament can erase this sin. I did it for you."

The whisper is now almost fully voiced, just a notch away from it. "Stop it!" Lance hisses, "Do you defy your priest?"

"Lance, I love you--"

At that last confession Lance snarls and strikes the lattice. "Go," he says, panicking, "I will not fall to temptation. _This,_ what you're doing, is the work of evil. Go! Leave!"

Keith crosses himself once more. "...I'll come back later."

Only after Keith leaves does the empty confessional and chapel echo with the priest's guttural sob.

==========


	2. Sister Mary Catherine

The parish serves mostly families of Italian and Japanese descent. It is an unusual combination, but the story goes that some half a century ago, two women--one a wife of a Sicilian immigrant and the other a mother of six Japanese children--happened to live nearby and became inseparable. They opened a shop together, an Italian bakery serving Japanese tea, and over the next fifty years the establishment quickly germinated a small town of nine hundred around it, predominantly Catholic.

A commonly accepted prejudice but an observable tendency nonetheless is that people band together by clinging to perceived similarity. This bizarre community was not an exception. Over those fifty years, the cultures mingled and transformed into something not quite Italian nor Japanese in the eyes of those who prefer names to what is experienced. The inhabitants of this town, although not vocally, resent outsider presence. Ironically their isolationist lifestyle soon invited the attention of the very outsiders they sought to avoid, and the town is now home to waves of tourists and, like any other community of minor ethnicity in this country, became the sanctuary of those unprotected by the law. The town was a piece of raw carrot floating in the melting pot that had failed to melt all cultures under the state flag as they so often lie loudly.

Among the crime organisations of this town, the most preeminent and notorious is the Casa Voltrono, a joint union of Sicilian mafia and expatriate Yakuza led by a boss identified, rather too simply for someone in his position, as "Keith", assisted by the leader of the Yakuza half and his right-hand man named, also too simply, as "Shiro". The larger public, ever captivated by the thrill of nomenclature, seems to prefer the sobriquet _Il Paladino Nero_ instead of "Keith"--a garish take against the contradictory devoutness of the sinful crime lord.

It had been Katie Holt's foremost wish in life to serve "the unfortunate who know not what they do", in her words. Raised in a family of scientists, Katie was expected to display a precocious talent in the field, which she accomplished at the early age of fourteen. The genius girl was the pride of her devout father, who would habitually comment at the head of the family dinner table, "to discover the secret of God's nature, Katie, is the noblest form of prayer". Eager to please her father, eager to expand her genius, Katie's red carpet rolled smoothly to a doctorate degree when others just began their freshmen years.

Her flying colours dropped and never flew again when her father Samuel disappeared without a trace one night on the way home. He was a lead researcher in a government crackdown on illegal bio weapons trade.

Before he likewise disappeared, Katie's brother brought her to a convent. There Katie took refuge for weeks that turned into months and years, finally taking the veil as Sister Mary Catherine. She did not wish to drop her secular name as is customary, and took the name of the Virgin Mary and Saint Catherine.

The obscurity of the convent and the uniformity of the habit protected her for more than a decade during which the presidency of this country changed twice. With the shift of regime, the Holt family disappearance was eventually forgotten.

Katie was not made for a cloistered life, but she had no wish to surrender her calling either. She asked to be restationed where she could be of more use to the flock, and the Sisterhood placed her in a community least likely to attract attention.

She found the Sunday School of the parish little better than a delinquent hotspot, which she flattened and cajoled with an iron fist in its literal sense: an accomplished engineer, she began by repairing home appliances before the pigeonholes in the churchyard. Then she tuned an old motorcycle she managed to purchase with church funds after an intense debate with the parish accountant and Father McClain. She let loose her skills on all kinds of malfunctioning automobiles in the neighbourhood.

The Sunday School was a Sunday School in name only. In practice it became a vocational alternative school for delinquent teenagers who found pencil and book too boring to teach them anything in life including the very necessary (as far as their boyfriends and girlfriends were concerned) technique of repairing and fine-tuning bikes. Kids no longer referred to her as "Sister Mary Catherine". She came to be known as Sister "Pidge" after the pigeons cocking in panic whenever she started an engine in the yard.

She operated on a general presumption: even the most heinous of mobsters wished their children a good life, but an acorn would never fall too far from the tree. She offered her churchyard for stray acorns. Some were already too far gone to be susceptible to her plans, but her tech sessions became a sanctuary for these acorns as she herself had sought refuge in a convent long ago. Some were already too cracked, either by circumstances or by their errant parents, doomed to be scarred in body and mind until kingdom come. For those children Pidge said many a silent Hail Mary. She was never one for superstition, being a scientist, she even believed secretly that the Creation in the Book of Genesis was only symbolic, but for those children she hoped fervently her prayers would form a rose wreath to crown the head of God. Some were healed. Some were never healed. But she never rested her hand all the same. Her pliers and hammers clonked on machines and grease marred her habit.

Here Sister Mary Catherine's true calling was revealed--it is not uncommon today to encounter genius minds, but to find a mind that passes on its own genius is a rare commodity. Pidge imparted her knowledge with everything she's got, and some acorns turned out to be rough gems who drank her efforts with the thirst of a camel. The good Sister believed that "God does _not_ work in mysterious ways"--everything had a cause which leads to an effect foreseeable enough to predict if only one paid enough attention. But even her unrelenting scientific mind surrendered to Providence's mysterious ways when the children of mobsters began attending her classes regularly, bridging the seemingly irreconcilable schism between the church and the mafia. The mafioso were sinners, but their children were not.

Many mafioso inclined their heads before Sister Mary Catherine as a sign of respect. To Father McClain, they asked for more blessing.

Those men were not their own men nor the men of the Casa Voltrono when it came to their own flesh and blood.

Thus the Church and Sister Mary Catherine silently sowed the seeds of guilt and regret into the most barren of hearts--seeds in the form of fine-tuned bikes and math tutoring taught to students thirsting for more than simple Catechism.

==========

Sister "Pidge" is on her way to clean the confessional booths when she comes across Father McClain emerging out of the booth with evident distress. The young priest's usual jolly demeanour is wiped out replaced by a pallor as if he's seen the Devil.

Father McClain sits on the pew and stares blankly ahead. At the end of his gaze is the crucifix.

Katie notices the priest's paling lips. Lance's brown skin lost its usual glow, drained of all blood.

"Is something the matter," asks Katie. She would've left the priest in his contemplation if it weren't for his trembling lips and audibly gritting teeth. They have been colleagues for years. The hot-headed priest and the pragmatic nun often argued over the management of the parish but each spat only strengthened their comradeship. There were trying times when they relied on the spiritual guidance of each other.

But she has never seen this side of him.

To Katie's surprise, Lance's eyes start to moist. He looks up to the ceiling to prevent the welling tears from brimming over the rim of his eyes.

"Sister Catherine," says Father McClain, "I've just realised my heart has always been in a state of sin."

==========


	3. Shirogane Takashi

His father, the old _kumicho,_ was old and infirm before he died. But his words still blaze with certainty today, inscribed in Takashi's mind.

_Takashi, to be served and to serve--that is all._

_We of the Shirogane are not bound._

_We lead men worthy to be led._

_We serve men worthy of our service._

_In so doing, serve yourself._

_In so doing, become a Shirogane,_

_Leave the boy Takashi behind._

When Takashi met Keith for the first time, he was the leader of the _Shirogane-gumi_ , and Keith a pickpocket boy.

Smelling like a wet dog in the rain, Keith lay on a bench, a hand pressing his side to stop the bleeding of a gunshot wound.

He was crying a name in delirium. _Lance_ , he moaned.

 _You're shot with a gun, not impaled on a lance,_ Takashi told him.

He ordered his men to drop the boy at a hospital and forgot all about the street mongrel.

When Takashi met him for the second time, Keith was a _caporegime_ in Lotor's crime family. 

They were cooperating to get the latest shipment.

The black-haired boy with thin, knobby elbows was replaced by a brooding man with a look that could kill.

Lotor betrayed Takashi that day--Keith's _soldato_ opened fire on the Yakuza.

But it was Keith who murdered his own men, still emptying rifle cartridges on their dead bodies while Takashi was bleeding on the ground. After the last person standing fell, Keith crossed himself and cast his eyes up, muttering prayers to the heavens. When his eyes found Takashi again, Keith smiled.

"Returning the favour," Keith said, winking, "to the man who saved me."

Keith wrestled Takashi's pistol and shot his own arm.

Chest heaving with pain, Keith said, "I'm the only survivor here today. You get me?" He handed a knife to Takashi and closed his eyes. "Do it right."

Takashi slashed Keith's face, leaving a deep gash on his right cheek. Keith swore and brought his sleeve to his face.

Takashi glimpsed a tattoo of an angel holding a lance on Keith's wrist. He remembers that rainy day. _Lance,_ the boy had moaned feverishly.

"Stay dead or Lotor _will_ kill me," were Keith's words before he left.

"Boy!" Takashi grunted, "What's your name?"

"Keith," he answered, "And I'm not a boy. Not anymore."

Takashi smiled. "That's fair."

When Takashi met Keith for the third time, Keith was Lotor's _sottocapo--_ underboss.

Keith waved at Takashi. The sharp edge of the angel's lance peeked from under his sleeve. "Payback time, Jap."

Takashi showed no acknowledgment of the insult. "We're on even scales, _greaseball_ ," Takashi replied, cleaning a dagger.

Keith laughed. "Greaseball? You serious? That's so old, dude. Well, you're almost forty now, so it doesn't matter I guess." _He still speaks like a boy,_ Takashi thought.

Keith picked up a lacquer vase and examined the bamboo pattern on it. "Nice place you got here. Took me years to find you, and that's saying something since I'm Lotor's best hound." He set the vase down and grabbed the _katana_ mounted on the wall.

The steel sang as it was unsheathed. Cold glow danced on the pearly blade. "Madre di Dio," Keith whispered in admiration.

An indignant vein rose on Takashi's forehead. It was his ancestral sword.

 _Behold the Shiroganemaru, the white steel tempered for twelve long winters,_ his father had told him. _It has been the friend of your father and his fathers. It is yours now._

"Put that down," Takashi hissed, glaring at Keith. "Or I make you."

Keith returned the sword to its place. "Chill, _amico_."

Takashi snapped his dagger's sheath harshly and threw it to the side. He massaged his stiff neck and sighed when he found the sore spot. "Why are you really here, Keith."

"Told you it's payback time," Keith replied.

Takashi crosses his arms. "I don't owe you anything."

"But you do to Lotor," Keith said.

Takashi's eyes flashed. Even then he could see his men painting the sand of the beach red with their betrayed blood. He unmounted his ancestral sword from the wall. "What is the plan."

"That ninja sword got a name?" Keith asked suddenly, scratching his head.

"It's not a _ninja_ sword. It's a katana. Shiroganemaru, the White Steel."

"Cute. Alright, I decided, I'm gonna call you Shiro."

Takashi scoffed in disdain. "You won't."

"Watch me," Keith winked, "Watch my back."

==========

Even without Keith's pistol, Lotor would have died of his wounds.

A single brandish of Shiro's sword was enough to rid Lotor of his hands and feet.

Blood gushed and pulsed in intervals, drenching the arms of Lotor's chair and pooling under the stumps of his legs.

"So the dog," Lotor's speech was rattled by his own moans, "bites the master's hand."

Keith sported a feral smile and dangled Lotor's hand with his fingers.

Then he bit a chunk of flesh. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, before swallowing it.

The hand, missing a bite of meat on its palm, hits Lotor's face when Keith throws it at him.

"Yeah, an astute observation, boss," Keith said while rolling his sleeves back, revealing the angel.

He kissed the inside of wrist, the angel raising the lance. "God is good," he said.

Then he shot Lotor's shin. A muffled scream escaped Lotor's clenched teeth. Droplets of cold sweat rolled down his forehead.

"That one's for Veronica."

The muzzle of the pistol traced Lotor's legs and stopped at his thigh this time. Another gunshot, another scream.

"That's for Marco."

Lotor's bloodshot eyes direct a hateful scowl to Keith. "Put a bullet in my head and be done with it."

For the first time, Shiro saw Keith shaken.

"I won't have you wearing that face before you die," said Keith. He whipped out a small flick knife and plunged it into Lotor's shoulder.

He twisted the blade in an excruciatingly languid rotation. Scraping sounds suggested he was touching bone.

Lotor's scream was nowhere near the muffled one moments ago.

"Hurts, yeah?" Keith breathed, locking his eyes with Lotor's. "That's where it hurts the most. The joints. This will hurt more once I start digging. But you have a quick way out. Confess, and I spray the walls with your brains. Messy but painless."

"What..." Lotor tried, only to repeat the head of his question from the mind-wracking pain. "What do you..."

"Why did you kill the McClains that night," asked Keith. His voice was beginning to tremble.

Lotor's eyes seemed to roll back from the bleeding. Keith twisted the blade and he revived with a groan, although pale and haggard like a man facing death any moment.

"McClain...? Who..."

Keith stomped his feet and kicked Lotor's mangled shins. Too much pain crumpled Lotor's posture. "I don't... know."

"Confess!"

Lotor spat a thick glob of spit to Keith's face. Every word was laboured. "I... don't know, you fool. Perhaps they were simply in the way... I don't remember, they must have been insignificant," he chuckled without humour.

Keith drove his gun into Lotor's mouth and shot repeatedly, swearing expletives in Italian. When his rage passed, he kicked the door open and left without a word.

Shiro followed him.

==========

Keith quickly eliminated Lotor's inner circle before they could draw a clear picture of what had happened. Then he fell into a life of debauchery for days, drunk as a fish and pouring money like water in the red-light district. He did not even leave commands; Shiro filled in on his own accord.

He understood what it was. Revenge ends in a great emptiness that swallows its nurturer. Keith was a man without purpose. He died along with his revenge.

On the fourth day Shiro found him cloud-high on drugs and balls-deep fucking a rentboy in one of the _famiglia_ 's top brothels. He barked at the prostitute to get out and cocked a gun. Keith jumped on Shiro, stuttering nonsense about taking Lance away from him. Shiro delivered a blow on his jaw with his entire body weight on it, not caring in the least if it'd strike Keith out cold. Keith crashed into a pathetic heap, sniffling and giggling at the same time.

"At this rate your men will _retire_ you _,_ " Shiro said. "Should I take the trouble?"

"Do it, I've done my job anyway," Keith sneered, then threw up all over the table, the contents of his stomach spattering empty bottles and drug pipes.

Shiro clucked his tongue. "You fucking moron. What would Lance--that's what you call her, isn't it--what would she say?"

Keith raised his puffy eyes at Shiro. His black hair was greasy, matted flat on his head. "You shut up about Lance! Lowlifes like you don't deserve to speak his name!" Then his head hung low again, muttering about lances and loves.

"His?" Shiro blinked several times, puzzled. Then a realisation dawned on him. "I see."

Shiro's eyes softened. His mind flew back to Adam, who died in a crossfire involving Shiro's organisation. He threatened to leave him after he had found out Shiro was a Yakuza member. _Don't expect me to be here when you get back,_ ** Adam had said.

Shiro had been too much of a fool to figure out Adam was the bigger fool. Adam tailed him and died. Shiro didn't even know he was there.

"Let's go see Lance. Where was he buried?"

Keith threw a puke-stained glass at Shiro, who didn't even have to duck because the aim was so poor. It shattered several feet away from him. "He's not dead, you son of a bitch," Keith yelled, narrowing his eyes.

Shiro stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. He laughed when he heard Keith rampaging inside, breaking more glasses and shouting like a madman.

Shiro beckoned at his underling. The man approached immediately.

"Go gather the boys and get in there. Clean and feed him. Force him if he's stubborn."

"At once, _oyabun._ "

"And find out where Lance McClain is... no, I'll do it myself."

==========

Shiro flips the beef on their table to sizzle on the pan. "How did it go."

Keith replies by pouring a glass full of _sake_ and downing it.

"A rather bad way of wasting a perfectly fine bottle," quips Shiro.

"You go watch over him," Keith says, trying to pick a piece of beef with his chopsticks without much luck. He sets them down on the table with a frustrated _clack_ and asks the waiter to bring him a fork, for God's sake. "He so much as loses a hair and you're dead."

"Why don't _you_ go."

"He doesn't want to see me. Gotta give him some space until I try again."

==========

The majority of residents were Catholic but Shiro has always stayed away from religion. He doesn't need to scrutinise his own morality when he knows full well he's considered a tumour of society. He wouldn't be here if it weren't for Keith's express directive.

The priest--Lance McClain approaches him with an affable smile.

Up close, he radiates a different air. Brown hair, brown skin, triangular jaw, clever eyes sparkling, so at peace with oneself. _Adam, Adam,_ his thoughts roar.

"I could say I never saw you before in the church," says Lance. "If you don't mind, is this your first time here?"

"I..." Shiro searches his mind for words. _Adam,_ his mind repeats again. "I..."

Shiro grits his teeth resolutely and turns.

"Forgive me," the priest whispers, "It wasn't my intention to offend, I was only too glad seeing a new face--"

"No, Father, I... I'm a bit under the weather," replies Shiro without facing him. He leaves the priest in hurried steps.

Shiro decides to watch from his car. He's becoming intensely aware of how he's not watching _over_.

He's just watching.

He's drinking. Every movement, every gesture, he's draining it into his parched self and he needs more to quench--there's a fair distance between them but he can already imagine the expression on the priest's face.

Shiro finds himself missing the sight dearly when the priest disappears behind the door of his rectory.

He thinks of Adam, then Keith, then Lance McClain.

Around the pulse of longing and prickle of pain in his chest, Shiro admits he's so, so fucked.

==========

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sentence marked with double stars is cited from Voltron: Legendary Defender TV series.


	4. Father McClain

_When I awoke it was day: an unusual movement roused me; I looked up; I was in somebody’s arms; the nurse held me; she was carrying me through the passage back to the dormitory. I was not reprimanded for leaving my bed; people had something else to think about; no explanation was afforded then to my many questions; but a day or two afterwards I learned that Miss Temple, on returning to her own room at dawn, had found me laid in the little crib; my face against Helen Burns’s shoulder, my arms round her neck. I was asleep, and Helen was—dead._

_Her grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard: for fifteen years after her death it was only covered by a grassy mound; but now a grey marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word “Resurgam.”_

_\---From Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre, Chapter 9_

==========

Lance is tackling the small stack of parish office papers on his desk when his mobile phone rings. _Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy--_ his ringtone is a recording of the youth choir's performance last Easter. He checks the touchscreen and sees a 10-digit number instead of a name. The number isn't on his contacts list.

 _Could it be...?_ He thinks, and he almost swipes away the call until the rational part of his mind tells him, he must not act on base suspicion.

Lance's thumb swipes the green receiver instead. Although his phone is still mid-air on the way to his ear, he already hears the shouts. _Father McClain? Hello? Father? Hello?_

"Yes, this is Father McClain."

"Father, I'm Ivana Moretti and my son Stefano is in the Sunday School. I attend evening Mass."

"Ah, yes, I know Stefano. How can I help you."

"Father," Mrs Moretti's voice breaks, choked with cries. "My husband, Roberto, fell unconscious just this morning and doctors say he won't last today. He needs a priest. We're in Our Lady of Peace Hospital."

Lance caps his pen and stands from the chair, heading to the chapel where the consecrated Host is kept in the Tabernacle. "I'm already on my way."

" _Grazie_ , _Padre,_ " the desolate wife says, "Please, hurry, they have no idea when he'll--" Mrs Moretti bursts into sobs.

"Mrs Moretti, I will collect what I need and be there right away."

"Yes, of course, Father, thank you so much. I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologise. I will see you there."

"Thank you," Mrs Moretti calms herself audibly, drawing several deep breaths. Lance is still listening when she ends the call after _Stefano, sweetheart, let's say another rosary for daddy._

==========

Down in the chapel Lance bows before the Tabernacle and removes two Hosts and a cruet of Blood. He remembers several years ago when a dying woman awoke conscious all of a sudden and asked for the Eucharist. At the time he had not prepared the Body and the Blood, thinking the patient wouldn't be able to receive Communion. He won't repeat the same mistake twice. _God acts in mysterious ways,_ he muses, reaching for the chrismatory case where the holy oils are kept.

He carefully arranges the sacramentals in a leather satchel and heads out to the churchyard where Sister Catherine is busy mending a microwave. A basket lay on an outdoor table nearby. _Support Our_ _Food Pantry,_ a sticky note on the basket reads. A group of parishioners, comprising several old women and only a few slightly younger, are talking and laughing among themselves. The pile of appliances on the bench informs Lance this is a charity drive he'd been notified of earlier.

"Father," the women nod at Lance, some waving their hands. "Coffee?" One of them lifts a pot from a coffee maker.

"Thank you, but I'm in a hurry," replies Lance. "I'm headed to the hospital."

An old lady who has been sipping from her cup crosses herself. "We'll pray for the family. Who is it?"

"Mr Moretti. Please be careful with the news. Particularly when reaching out to the family."

"Don't you worry," another woman answers, "We already knew Ivana's been nursing the Mister for some time."

Her comment pours oil to the fire of gossip among the ladies. "Oh, Roberto, is it? Poor Ivana. At least she can have a breather now. The man's such a--"

"Can you _ever_ zip it up, Lizzie?"

"What? I'm just laying out the facts--"

A _clang_ sounds from where Sister Catherine is tinkling the oven with a spanner, putting an end to the gossip. She stands and wipes her hands on a rag. "All done, you can take your oven, Mrs Nakamura, it's good to go," she says. "Ladies, there's a lot of work left and I don't feel that the misfortune of our neighbour is a topic to be broached so casually. This is a house of God and the Lord is listening."

The women hurriedly shift their attention to the beautiful autumn sky and sons who don't study.

Lance smiles faintly at Katie and she gives him a thumbs-up facing him so the women don't see her. "You need a ride, Father?"

"I'm fine. I'll drive."

"Well, a motorbike can get you there faster than our little banger."

"Sister," Lance gives her a warning look.

"Times are changing," Katie grumbles, "The Church ought to know that if it wants the flock properly cared and served, Father, they could at least let us have a functioning car. I'll get the bike."

"No, really, it'll be inappropriate and I don't want to keep you from your schedule."

"Who cares about propriety when work is waiting, Father? I'll drop you at the hospital and resume my duties with the speed of God's fury."

Lance gives in to Sister Catherine's jolly insistence. "Very well."

==========

A frocked priest and a veiled nun on a motorbike together is an uncommon sight. Lance regrets accepting the Sister's offer when the gazes of visitors at the hospital linger more than necessary on them.

Katie, on the other hand, seems to be concerned about nothing and smirks at Lance's general direction. "What did I say, fast as God's fury."

It takes time for Lance to thank Katie and enter the hospital, because a familiar silhouette ahead stops his steps. "Sister, sometimes I wish God were quicker with his mercy than his fury."

Katie straightens her windswept veil as she watches Lance from the corner of her eyes. "Something the matter?"

"No. Thanks for the ride. I'll see you at the church. All the best to your charity drive."

"Sure. My prayers to you and the Morettis." Katie starts up her engine and leaves.

Lance has kept the leather satchel close to him and nothing inside has spilled when he checks to be sure. Bracing himself for the inevitable, Lance holds his head high and pointedly avoids making eye contact with Keith. This determination to look at everywhere _but_ Keith contrarily brands the thought of Keith into his head. He realises he's seeing Keith for the first time after what feels like forever; he hadn't the chance to take a good look at him from the confessional the other day.

A definite, noticeable change has come upon Keith. He's no longer the scrawny kid who had seemed to have no other expression than a silent gloom. _This is Keith,_ the headmistress of the orphanage had said. Mum had insisted the family pay a visit to an orphanage instead of having the usual Christmas dinner. When Keith peeked from behind the headmistress, Mum squealed in delight and pinched Keith's cheeks. Luis ruffled his hair and gave him a Christmas box.

Keith didn't take it. He threw the present, pushed Mum and ran away.

Lance chased him. He had been taller than Keith. He pounced on him and they fell on the cold, snowy garden. They tore and scratched at each other. His height an advantage, Lance climbed on top of Keith and gave the tit what he deserved. He punched Keith's sullen, sunken face until Mum and Luis tore him from the short boy.

 _Lance! I am so, so very disappointed!_ Mum said.

The next day Mum dragged him back to the orphanage and told him he's to live there for a week. He watched Mum leaving a thick envelope on the headmistress's table and bags after bags of foodstuffs in the orphanage kitchen. When Mum left, the headmistress assigned him a bed above Keith's. They fought, fought, quarreled, argued, fought, and then played. Weekly visits became a thing. Their talks became more and more intimate. They talked about Keith's dad, who was a brave firefighter. They talked about Lance's dad, who Lance had no memories of. They poked and nudged and snickered about girls. Who's the pretty girl? What's she like?

They reached stories of their first masturbation. Curious, interested glances. _It feels better if you squeeze the head,_ Keith said. _Nuh-uh, press it on the mattress,_ Lance said. _How do you even whack off pressing your dick,_ Keith said.

And then Lance told him all the girls he told him about were actually guys.

And then Keith kissed him.

It was lips on lips, first. _Do the one with the tongue,_ Lance said. It was all very messy and they ended up smelling their own dried saliva when they were done.

They went to making out from simply fooling around. Kisses became wetter and deeper, days felt unreasonably longer when they did not see each other. Sometimes Mum accompanied Lance with gifts for the orphanage children. On those days they simply winked and satisfied themselves with a casual brush of skin that felt more like a caress. They got to the point where they could converse without words. Lance would lean on Keith's shoulder. Keith would close his eyes when Lance massaged his head. Keith's time in the orphanage was close to an end and they made plans what to do after.

One day, when Lance was at the orphanage, the police came. Lance and Luis were the only survivors because they weren't home.

Something about the law, and they made Lance see what had taken place. He met Mum at the door. Her eyes were vacant and a blackened stream of tacky liquid was drying around her head. Pop-pop's favourite couch had regurgitated its cotton like a dying, frothing man just like Pop-pop who had coughed his blood before he died. Marco's fingers had been clutching his favourite baseball bat. Veronica was huddled dead in the corner of her own room.

 _It's okay, Buddy, I'm right here,_ Keith whispered.

 _It's not okay,_ were the only words Lance told him in reply, and he doesn't remember much.

Irony was cruel. It was then that Lance, for the first time in his life, really _talked_ to God. Mum had always told him to say his prayers like he meant it, and he always had brushed it off with a _Yeah, Mum._ Only now that she was gone did he do what she told him to do. He talked to God with everything he had. _Why? Why, Lord? Why this? Why? For what reason? Answer me, you fucking son of a bitch. Yeah. I knew you didn't exist. Fuck you. Fuck Hail Marys. Fuck the Mass. God, I hate you._

God answered him. Stupid reason, too. The useless police presented the likeliest explanation only when another family was massacred nearby. The McClains never had to die. The McCains were the target; the family had criminal connections. Lance's entire family died because they had an extra L in their surname. Plain mistake. Plain stupidity. Absurd like everything God had created on Earth.

Keith told Lance it's an absolute rubbish. _There must be another reason. Things don't happen like that._

Lance told Keith it's an absolute rubbish. _There's no reason in this fucked up incident. I'd like to move on. I had enough, Keith, please..._

Keith called him a coward. Lance punched him. They never met again. No, that's not right--Keith tried everything to talk to Lance again, left notes about how sorry he was, left voicemails about how much he loved him, but Lance never answered back.

A solicitor told Lance that his family savings and public donation were organised into a fund to support him and Luis. _You can stuff your hole with the fund, tell me when they'll find the murderer,_ Lance yelled.

He went to Mass only out of habit and for the memories of his family.

 _I believe in the Holy Spirit..._ people were chanting the Creed, but a question clawed at Lance's heart instead. _Are you guys spirits now?_

 _The Holy Catholic Church..._ Lance sneered. _Nothing about this is holy, that guy over there is probably thinking about how he'd really like to screw the girl next to him._

 _The Communion of Saints..._ Lance's lips trembled. _Just once, God, let me talk to them. Let me hear their voices._

 _The Forgiveness of Sins..._ Tears of hatred and resentment burnt the rims of his eyes. _Lies! Complete and utter horseshit. I will never forgive them. I will never forgive you, Lord._

 _The Resurrection of the Body..._ He knew the man seated beside him was staring at tears and snot that finally flooded his scrunched face. _Mind your own business,_ he spat.

 _And Life Everlasting._ Lance did not genuflect to the altar as he left the Mass, kicking the doors open. He felt outraged eyes on his back and it was satisfying. It was satisfying to pour out his anger at God, who dared to give him death and sorrow when he promised life. God was a big fat liar and everyone who disagreed could go to hell.

It took months for him to try the church again. His family was buried in the churchyard, but he abandoned the grave. Luis wanted nothing to do with it either. He married and formed a family of his own, to paint over the past and start anew. Lance was surprised to see a brand new gravestone he did not remember commissioning marking their grave. _Resurgam--_ "I shall rise again", the inscription read. When he inquired, he was told the money came from a certain "Keith".

The headmistress of the orphanage gave Lance a phone number that should lead him to Keith after he was released from her care.

After trying countless times, Lance called him one last time before the Rite of Ordination. The number did not exist.

Lance would never tell Keith he's the one who rekindled the faith in him. It's too late now.

==========

With the sight of Keith his darkest memories are bursting alive from the depths of his soul. Red for the blood splattered in his house, blue for the roof of the orphanage, black for Keith's hair... Keith is no longer the sad scrawny boy who was always shorter than Lance. Now he is broader and a head taller than him. People who know what Keith really is call him _il Paladino Nero._ And Keith says he still loves him.

Lance prays Keith doesn't see him, but he knows his prayer fell on deaf ears because Keith approaches him.

Keith has turned handsome as the Devil. What's unkempt for other people merely looks rugged on him. Lance chastises himself when he realises he's admiring how well Keith's suit wraps his powerfully built figure. Beautiful and lethal like a lion.

"Father McClain," calls Keith, but Lance keeps walking. He tells himself, temptation is deadliest when one just begins to let one's guard down.

" _Padre_ ," he hears the voice again, soft and kind. No one would be able to guess the owner of the same voice is a man who sins for a living.

"Lance _,_ " Keith breathes, and Lance hears the steps of Keith's loafers closing in. "Please."

Lance is stopped by a giant of a man missing an eye. "Mr Keith just wants to talk, _Padre_." Lance scoffs at the man's use of _Mr Keith_ instead of the _Don_ _._ It seems they've dropped their mafia jargons out in the public at least.

When Keith sees the man laying his hand on Lance's shoulders, something in his eyes makes the man step back, face ashen. "We'll talk about this later, Vito," Keith says in a voice that retains none of its previous mildness.

Looking at Lance's leather satchel, Keith's expression turns grim. "You must be here for Roberto."

That attracts Lance's full attention. He cocks an eyebrow suspiciously. "How do you know this?"

"He's... uh, a friend of mine," Keith wets his lips with his timid tongue. "He goes to your church."

"Does he call you _boss_ or _Don_?"

"Don't let his association with me stop you from giving him peace," Keith says, "He's a good man."

"Only God decides that, I'm just doing my duty," replies Lance. "Is that all? I really have to go. The family is waiting for me."

"Sure. Yeah. Uh, look, Lance, can we talk after?"

"About what?"

"Please, I missed you so much. I want your absolution. I want us to know how we lived these past ten years. I want you to know everything I've done, I've done for you," Keith raises a hand to cup Lance's face.

Lance slaps his hand away, looking around in mixed embarrassment and indignation. Some people were already casting puzzled looks their direction. "Do _not_ stall a priest on his way to a Sacrament."

Keith takes a step back. "That wasn't my intention, Father," he says, "I only--"

Lance draws a shuddering breath and pushes past Keith.

==========

Mrs Moretti slumps from exhaustion when Lance enters the room. The lady bursts into tears, burying her face into her hands. Her son Stefano is sitting on a chair next to his father's bed, playing a game with his phone. His eyes are puffy but start moistening again when he hears his mother breaking down. A statue of Virgin Mary stands on a bedside table between two candles.

"Mrs Moretti, please be strong for your husband and son," says Lance.

She dabs her eyes with a hanky and blows her nose noisily. "Yes, _Padre._ Thank you for coming." She turns to the patient and calls, "Roberto? Father McClain is here."

Her husband lay unconscious without answering.

Mrs Moretti begins sniffling again. "His femoral artery was ruptured when they shot him. He bled out too fast and there was nothing the doctors could do for him here. They say he's as good as..." _Dead,_ they both know what the unspoken word is.

"Right now, we pray and try to make this room a peaceful place for Mr Moretti," says Lance. Observing Mr Moretti's condition, he takes out only the oil from the satchel and skips the ritual to begin anointing immediately. He applies the oil to Mr Moretti's eyelids. "By this holy anointing and by his most tender mercy may the Lord forgive you all the evil you have done through the power of sight."

Stefano, who has been playing with his phone, is now praying with his mother. Both answer with Amen.

Lance moves on to Mr Moretti's nose and mouth, repeating the prayer. But when he reaches his hands, Mr Moretti's fingers shake and twitch as though he were conscious. His wife emits a surprised gasp and hurriedly approaches the bed. "Roberto! Roberto!" she shouts her husband's name desperately.

It should be impossible, but the man's eyelids flutter open. He looks at his wife and his son.

Then he expires, eyes losing focus and breath stopping. The vitals monitor's alarm bleeps. Nurses and a doctor enter the room, warned by the monitoring system.

==========

The taxi stand is inconveniently far and Lance is following the almost empty street when a black Mercedes stops before him. Two men in suits emerge. One of them inclines his head respectfully and says, "Father McClain, the Don sent us. Please come with us."

Lance's heart races in fear. "I don't know if you're Catholics, but physical force against a priest is a serious religious offence."

"It won't come to that," the other one says, and Lance realises he's seen him before. It's the tall, strange man who left abruptly after Lance greeted him in the church.

Seeing Lance's eyes widen in recognition, the man smiles. "My name is Shirogane Takashi--my friends call me Shiro. I am under orders to bring you unharmed. We will, of course, ensure you're safely home after meeting Keith."

Lance fishes for his mobile phone from his pocket. "I've just finished administering last rites. I want to go back to the church right away and pray for the departed soul." Before he could dial 911, however, Shiro grabs his wrist and wrestles the phone away.

"Please," whispers Shiro, "I'd prefer not to make a scene. Just come quietly, Lance, and no one gets hurt."

Lance notices Shiro is addressing him by his first name. It makes the hair on his nape stand, so he turns and runs as fast he can back to the hospital.

Shiro catches up easily and Lance feels an arm around his waist. When Shiro strikes the side of the priest's neck, Lance's vision blackens and he stops flailing, limp like a dead fish.

==========

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can't knock out someone with a karate chop to the neck. It's just an exaggerated TV trope. But Shiro doing that to Lance is somehow hot <3


	5. Guardian Angel

Shiro enters Keith's office and finds him looking over the latest income ledger. Keith beckons a man waiting near the door to come over. "We're improving, well done, Luca."

Luca approaches, smirking sheepishly. "It's my job."

When Keith's hand disappears under his desk, Luca flinches a little, the smirk freezing on his lips. He lets out a furtive breath only after Keith sets two slips of paper on his desk.

Keith uncaps his pen, but something occurs to him and he stops before putting the pen to work. "How long has Roberto worked for us, thirty?"

"Well, seven years, for you. Twenty-three for... Lotor." Luca's voice diminishes as he gets to Lotor. "Roberto was one of the first boys, the old man."

"So. thirty for our thing," Keith says. He nods resolutely and writes a number on a blank cheque: $300,000. It makes Luca's face freeze again, but this time in surprise.

"Wewouldn't have succeeded without Roberto's help. After I killed Lotor I swore to all of you this is going to be a _family_ more than in name. We look out for our own. Roberto died doing our job, so it falls to us to take care of his family. Give this to his wife; it'll be enough to last them until Roberto's son is initiated to the Voltrono."

Luca takes the cheque from Keith. "You are our _Don._ "

Keith signs the remaining slip and gives it to Luca. "Here's one to encourage you to keep up the good work. Get your wife a new necklace or something and share the rest with your men."

The smirk on Luca's face is neither short nor suppressed. "I'll tell her it comes from you."

"Tell her it comes from _you._ Go."

Shiro's posture relaxes only when he and Keith are left in the office. He tugs at his collar and loosens his tie, pouring a glass of whisky which he drains quickly. "He's here, your angel."

For a moment Keith stares at his tattoed wrist, laughing at the joke. "Thanks. Where's he waiting?"

"Your bed."

The answer doesn't sit right with Keith. "I don't understand."

"He didn't want to come, naturally, so I had to _bring_ him here. I stunned him."

"You fucking idiot," Keith snarls and advances to Shiro. He doesn't care Shiro is far from little--taller and stronger than anyone he's ever seen. He swings a fist at his right-hand man, who takes it without evading it. The blow lands straight on his cheek and Shiro staggers, supporting himself with a hand on the wall.

Shiro wipes the corner of his lips, poking the inside of his aching cheek with his tongue. "Get going. You want to be the first person your angel sees when he's up."

Keith throws him a box of tissue. "You could've dodged it," he says.

Shiro spits on a sheet of tissue paper, staining it with blood. "Nasty punch. Should've kicked you flying."

"Next time, maybe." Keith shrugs and leaves the office. 

Shiro wonders if his swelling cheek is enough compensation; an uncomfortable tug in his thoughts tells him it's far too less payment for sneaking a kiss on the priest.

==========

The sight is too lovely that Keith regrets hitting Shiro. He acted on an angry impulse. He should have, in fact, complimented the man for gifting him the chance to see Lance safely tucked in his bed. Safe from everyone, everything that might hurt him. Safe here under his watchful eyes, after he's triumphed and leashed them all down to the weakest backstreet gangbanger. Keith perches carefully on the bed so he doesn't wake Lance. Lance is feisty; he'd up and leave when he comes to. Keith wants this moment to last as long as possible. He lies down on his side, face-to-face with Lance. It's dark, there's only a couple of candles burning in the room, but he thinks he can make out Lance's thick, pretty eyelashes. His sleek, trim body. Keith slides closer to him. He wants, no, _needs._ He needs to feel Lance's breath on his face. The dampness on his skin. A scalding lump forms in Keith's throat, sending embarrassing waves of heat to his eyes. His eyelids close to blink the tears back, but instead, they trickle down his nose and wet the pillow. Keith takes Lance's divine hand--the hallowed hand that touches the Host and the Blood daily, the soft hand that blesses its flock, the loving hand that had once upon a time given him pleasure like no other--Keith takes Lance's divine hand into his own sinful hands and _dares_ to kiss it.

When he encountered Lance at the hospital earlier today, Keith had to consciously, consciously suppress the rapture that coursed through his existence, body and soul. He's glad he managed to remain patient.

Lying in the bed so close to Lance brings him back to those days when he had been "God's favourite child". There were two kinds of "God's favourite children" in the orphanage--those who didn't know who their parents were, and those who knew. He belonged to the latter. He knew what family meant. He knew what Thanksgiving meant. He knew Christmas. He knew. He fucking knew and all of a sudden, he was thrown into the middle of the desert. It had felt surreal. His world collapsed and shrank into prayer at morning and prayer at night, prayer before breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, and dinner. Prayer before class, prayer during Mass. _Thank you_ , _Lord,_ for what? For the fire that barbecued his father?

But he came to believe that the Mother of God was really, actually watching over him, and that the eyes of God were on the sparrow, as the lyric of the lullaby hymn said. He had by then grown accustomed to his shrunken world, but the Lord soon sent his Guardian Angel to tear his walls down.

At first, it hurt. It hurt awfully. He couldn't stand that happy smile on that conceited brown face. He could stand the lousy presents the headmistress gave them every Christmas, but he could _not_ stand the absolutely awesome present that Lance's mum gave him. What was he supposed to do? Grin like an idiot and say thanks? He hated Lance's cheeky smirk. Those blue eyes. He wanted to make him cry, he _knew_ he could, but there his mum and the headmistress were. So he just pushed his mum and hurled the gift.

Everything happens for a reason. God has a grand plan, everything is His design. God made his little fight with Lance into something beautiful. It was just as the headmistress always said. His personal Guardian Angel at his side. In the flesh. In the chocolaty, sugar-sweet flesh that quivered under Keith's touch during their adolescence. His Angel had eyes as blue as the Atlantic Ocean; Keith didn't have to wait for seaside field trips anymore. Here was his private beach. He swam in there until he drowned.

He drowned further, further down to his happy doom when Lance had shyly turned his back on him one afternoon, brushed the grassy patch he was crouching on, and told him those magical words: "I _think_ I'm gay."

Now that he looks back, it makes him laugh to the best effect.

Keith smiled and told him, "You _are_ gay."

It took him two days to coax a sulking Lance to talk to him again.

He made plans. _They_ made plans on what to do after Keith left the orphanage. They talked about scholarships and student loans. They talked about applying to the same college. Alternatives, too. Lance should go to college, and Keith would get a daytime job in the same town. Because Keith didn't like studying. "I feel you, buddy, I feel you," Lance said as though he were telling the biggest secret on Earth.

Lance came back one day, blue eyes glittering like sunlit sea, "Keith! I told Mum about us! Here, this is what she said, listen-- _You got a stud there, Lance!_ "

Everything seemed to go according to God's great and exciting plan. And then once again, the Devil interfered. The Devil came with blood and fire, straight out of hell. The Devil took everything away, but it wasn't enough that he took from him. He took from Lance. The Devil raised its filthy claw and left an irrevocable mark on Keith's Guardian Angel.

God was silent.

Why?

Why is God silent?

Why is God silent, didn't He create the world and say, _it was very good?_

_Lord, why? I thought I finally had a chance in this world. I thought... I thought you wanted me to be happy. Isn't that why you sent Lance to me? His mum's a good person. I don't understand... Didn't you have Parents too? You didn't fucking kill your Mother off when you were human. So why did you kill Lance's family? They were my family too. You gave and you took again. You owe me an answer, you lying arsehole._

The headmistress used to say, _God is silent because He wants us to discover His will._

So Keith went and did just that. God was silent, so he discovered His will. Maybe Lance isn't just his Guardian Angel. Maybe Lance is his innocent lamb too. Perhaps, just perhaps, God sent Lance to him because He knew this was going to happen. God wanted Keith to protect Lance. Forever.

He became a street gangbanger. Pickpocket. Weed dealer. Dealt in more than weeds. Then a thug. Somewhere in between all of that, some random son of a bitch shot him.

God sent another angel. Well, not so much an angel as a good Samaritan. Or a good Japanese. Everything happens for a reason. Apparently, Keith was still destined to survive and protect Lance.

Jesus briefly went to hell after He had died. Keith would do the same. He discovered the name of the Devil. Lotor.

Now, he wants his Paradise back. He did God's work. Isn't that why Lance is sleeping so peacefully in his bed right now? All's well that ends well.

==========

Someone is snoring, and it's not himself. Lance wakes up, startled.

Keith is sleeping next to him. They're both fully clothed, but Keith's all over him; an arm under Lance's head, another on his waist, a foot over Lance's legs. Lance pries Keith off him and sits up.

His mouth opens agape as he takes in the view of the room. Portraits of the Virgin Mary and dozens of crucifixes hang on every side. He sees a switch next to the door, but the room's lit only by candles. The religious symbols are far from comforting; to see so many assembled together is grotesque and unsettling. They aren't there for adoration or worship. They reflect the troubled soul of the room's owner. Every one of them is a pillar that's keeping the house from collapsing altogether. To need so many faces to watch him sleeping--Keith's wounded, bruised state dawns on Lance in a whole new meaning. He's reminded of his refusal to absolve Keith. A soul in need, shunned. He hears his own voice scolding, _h_ _igh and mighty, were you, Lance McClain?_

In their guilt, Lance's downturned eyes travel along Keith's sleeping form and stop at his wrist where the sleeve's rolled up.

When an angel holding a lance comes into his vision, Lance finds his fingers tracing the tattoo on Keith's warm skin.


	6. Prosecutor Allura Altea

It's nearing thirty-two hours since Prosecutor Allura Altea left her home, and she swears no amount of doubleshot Moonbucks coffee can hold her sleep back. At this point, chucking on more caffeine would only burst her bladder, she thinks. There are bags darker than their stubbles under her teammates' eyes. When one of the men, dozing off, knocks over his cup, Allura decides enough is enough.

"Let's call it a day, boys," it doesn't sound quite right; they've been here longer. "Or two."

"Or three," quips Agent Coran. He's old enough to be Allura's father, but he temporarily came out of retirement for the single purpose of arresting the name on their whiteboard: _Keith "Black Paladin"_ , underscored twice.

Chairs are dragged, laptops are shut, and soon Allura and Coran are the only two left in the room.

Coran crumples his paper cup. "Not going home?"

Allura heads over to the floor-to-ceiling window and peers down at the glittering cityscape. "It's 3 am. I have to be back here in the morning anyway. I'll bunk down on the sofa."

Coran's moustache quivers disapprovingly. "There's this beautiful thing called half-day off."

"Half-day during which my workload would multiply. Exponentially," adds Allura, trying to tie her hair back in a bun with a scrunchie. The hairband hits the table and slides off to the floor when Allura tosses it after failing. "Now my _hair_ is being a pain," she says in frustration. The overworked prosecutor calms herself with a deep breath and retrieves the scrunchie. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Coran. Guess it's time to head home. I'll take that half-day."

"You should, ma'am. I believe my lack of sleep drove the Holt case cold."

"That's not true at all."

"You'll know I'm not joking when the fatigue catches up."

"Fine, fine, I get it," Allura chuckles tiredly, "What better advice to follow than your own, though. Private investigators aside, I bet you're the only one pursuing that case."

Coran stands next to her and admires the night view. "The daughter. Katie Holt--I know she is out there. Witness accounts never matched."

A look of determination sets into the 60-year-old agent's brows. Allura applauds the man's persistence. Coran still retains that tenacity of bygone past when men had to run on their feet and manually catalogue yellowing case files, a rare quality these days that Allura hopes to emulate beyond marginal success. They say with enough time spent at court and on the field gives you a certain kind of instinct. Listening to Coran, Allura has this inexplicable hunch that Coran will, somehow, manage to close the Holt Family case to completion. And the day that happens will go down in history.

==========

_Huh?_ and _Shouldn't have overworked..._ are the two thoughts inside Allura's head, digging deep into the cushion of the airbag deployed when her car collides with a black sedan. She had been peering at the road ahead and her seat began to feel more comfortable than usual; she was on that boundary between sleep and inertia. Then she heard a loud _bang,_ vision and hearing fazing out. A high-pitched ting pulses over and over again in her ears. Allura retakes the breath knocked out of her lungs as the airbag deflates. Her breath hitches over a sharp pain on her side. Her shirt is white. There's no blood, either it's a bruise, or she fractured her ribs.

There is an awful ache around her neck, or perhaps it's her entire body, she can't be sure. She pushes the door open and slides out. She must have fallen asleep at the wheel. She sees the sedan at a distance, its bonnet crushed. Where's her phone? She must call an ambulance for them. But it's not with her. Oh, it's in her car. She has the habit of throwing her phone on the passenger seat.

_God, I shouldn't have overworked. I really shouldn't have. How am I going to explain this, it's going to be a mess, gonna need cover before I call the ambulance--_

Allura bends into the car to look for her phone. She can't find it. Dammit, she has to call someone and get this taken care of as soon as possible, she can't let this sabotage her progress with the Casa Voltrono case. Right, she'll call favours for this one. It's her case, it's she who has led her team this far, and she won't let some random fucker step in and walk off with the fruits of her hard, sleep-deprived work. There is no way in _hell_ she will let that happen. If anyone's landing the Black Paladin in the slammer, it's Allura Altea and no one else.

The deflated airbags are obstructing her vision, and there are shards of shattered glass everywhere. Considering the state of her car, she realises anew how close she was to death. Allura is still looking for her phone when a desperate shout, frenzied with fear, breaks the silence.

"Lance? Lance!" The man's voice is close to sobs. "Lance! Oh, God, help!"

A man is bending into the backseat of the sedan, hollering in Italian.

 _Shit, so much for secrecy,_ Allura thinks. She sighs and approaches the man.

"Sir? Sir... you can't move an injured person like that, please, wait for the ambulance."

Another man inside the car moans in pain. But he answers back. "Keith? I'm fine, it's just... I think I broke an arm."

"Lance! Thank God... Thank God."

 _Keith?_ It's a common enough name, but it doesn't stop Allura from taking a wary step back.

Suddenly, _Keith_ whirls around and Allura is greeted by the click of a gun cocking.

"Figlia di puttana," growls the man. The scar on his right cheek stretches menacingly as he bares his teeth. "Who sent you? Which family? Talk, or you die."

The eyes of the huntress fall on the face of the hunted. Only, here in the darkness, their positions are reversed. She is the hunted, Allura realises, beholding the face she has imprinted in her mind and studied so many times, with all possible disguises simulated. The face in the picture of her whiteboard, the face in the photos stored in her laptop. The face is a little older than the more youthful versions she is accustomed to, but still very familiar and, to some sick extent -- it's like encountering a long-lost prodigal son.

"The Black Paladin..." Allura whispers. A dozen different thoughts dance in her mind. Fear, exhilaration, anger, mostly fear, joy, fear again, and a sizable slice of belated regret for not having her gun with her. "...Keith."

"Ah, I've seen your mug before," replies Keith, lifting an eyebrow. " _Cazzo!_ You're that prosecutor after me! God works in mysterious ways."

"Keith?" The man inside the car calls, "What's going on?"

Keith doesn't lower the gun trained at Allura's head. "Stay in the car, Lance."

"You don't want to shoot me," Allura bluffs. "You don't know if your car works and I called the ambulance _and_ the police already. If you kill me you're declaring war against the state, attention is the last thing you people want."

Keith scoffs. "You didn't call anyone. You underestimate me, signorina. A woman's cunt won't make me shit myself, so that's one more reason to whack you. Say your prayers."

Allura feels her heart hammering, the cold-hot sensation of adrenaline spreading through her veins. The deathly mouth of the gun gapes before her. The spark of the bullet will be the last thing she sees, Allura thinks. Is this how it's gonna end? Over a stupid car crash? _I believe my lack of sleep drove the Holt case cold,_ Coran said -- yes, Coran, me too, I thought I'd handcuff the Black Paladin the first time I see him, but apparently it's me dying. A phone on the passenger seat, a gun in my bag. _There was nothing on her person for self-defence, she was taken by surprise..._ That's what the papers are going to report. So much for the prosecutor who aced her bar exam. What a stupendous lack of professionalism.

She waits for the inevitable.

But the inevitable finds her in an unexpected form: an arm emerges from the sedan and wraps around Keith's waist. "No! Keith! Please. Please... don't. Don't kill her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's some imaginary country somewhere on Earth. Not US, UK, Italy, not Japan... just somewhere.


	7. Lucky Clover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. Something gave me a writing block, but now I'm finally free.

* * *

Allura watches Keith's fierce countenance softening and losing its determination. Inside the car is a priest ( _he's dressed as one,_ she thinks, noting his clerical collar) who looks just as stunned as Allura, wide-eyed at the gun in Keith's hand. "By God, Keith, please," the priest says again. Keith, the Black Paladin, the murderous bastard who seized the leadership of the Casa Voltrono with bullets and blood, is faltering here before a woman and a priest. Whatever happens, Allura resolves to survive this. After years and years, she has finally met the one person who may be the key to unlock the secrets of the Black Paladin--his origins and his life. He may even be the ribbon to tie up the end of the crime family. A horseshoe pendant, a bead of the rosary, a lucky clover--yes, that is what he is, the lucky clover for Prosecutor Allura Altea's ever successful career. And with his help too Allura will tackle this situation.

Allura's self-assurance, or, as the case may be, self-reassurance, is cut short by a demand disturbing in every way possible for the female sex in her predicament: "Strip," says Keith.

Allura disbelieves her ears. _Does this son of a bitch want to--_

"Strip, make it fast." To drive his point home Keith shoots the ground just inches from Allura's heels. The prosecutor emits a shocked yelp and starts unbuttoning her suit.

"Keith! What the fuck are you doing to her?" Lance yells. At this moment he seems to have forgotten that he is a priest and should not speak in such a _secular_ way, or, Allura thinks, perhaps he is not a priest at all. But he did stop him from shooting her. Perhaps he is indeed a priest. The only way to know would be to ask. One thing she knows, the man seems to hold sway over the _Paladino Nero_.

"Father! If you're a priest, please--"

"I can hear you plotting in your head," growls Keith, "You'd better be quiet or I make you."

"You'll regret this," replies Allura vehemently, taking off her top. Clad only in her brassiere and undies, she tries in vain to cover her upper body.

"My only regret would be not killing you here tonight, signorina," answers Keith, upon which both Lance and Allura are visibly relieved. "But I will not have you acting after us. Strip."

"Keith," the priest calls again, "Let her go."

Keith is about to blurt out an angry _Lance!_ , but decides against it. Quick though the prosecutor might find out about Lance, she would not receive his name from Keith. Let her hunt for information take the long way around. Then he realises he had shouted out the priest's name after his car crashed with Allura's, and that the prosecutor must have heard Lance's name. Keith struggles with himself, his finger is itching to pull the trigger and put a bullet through the woman's head, but with the woman's brains he would blow away too all hopes of reconciliation with Lance. He doesn't want to have to force Lance.

"Strip, woman, or are you fucking deaf? Take off your clothes. Starkers."

Biting her lower lip in shameful frustration, Allura takes off every single piece of clothing from her person. The night air slaps cold on her skin, but the palpable humiliation is even colder on her skin. She is stripped not just of her clothes, but her pride, and in that moment Allura decides that no matter what happens, she will have the Black Paladin put behind bars, for life and triple life, without possibility of parole, without possibility of anything at all, she would do _anything_ do make it happen. This is a man who strips people of their livelihood, this is a man who strips entire cities of their safety. This is a man whose existence is a blight. Tumour of the society, cancerous sore among the people.

When Allura is finally bare, Keith approaches slowly. Allura's nakedness does not seem to interest him in the least. Grinning condescendingly like the kid that pulled the long end, he handcuffs Allura to the cover of the crushed bonnet. "Quiet," he barks when Allura begins swearing. Keith then finds Allura's gun and phone from her car and hurls them away, far from the prosecutor's reach. No longer able to suppress her shame, Allura lets dark anger stain her fierce glare.

"You'll pay for this," she promises. "You will regret letting me live. You hear me? Cop-killing, drug-dealing bastard!"

"Don't make me regret more. It's gonna be bad for your health, Prosecutor Altea," sneers Keith. He wolf-whistles, raking Allura's figure with his gaze. "Pity my boys aren't here tonight. We'd treat you to _such_ service."

Allura spits at Keith's feet. "Who's that man in the car. The man you called Lance."

"Not gonna tell you," Keith answers in a sing-song voice.

"I'll find him. It'll be easy if he's really a priest. I have his name and all I have to do is scour the churches."

The moment those words leave her lips, Allura asks herself if this is the end for the third time that night--a terrible expression of fury dawned on Keith's face. If looks could kill, she'd have died already. Keith looks like he would enjoy nothing more than blasting Allura's face with the gun still in his hand.

"I think you've made me regret enough," Keith voice is eerily quiet. "No, I cannot let you live. You people failed him enough. I won't let you be a thorn in his arse."

Something must have alerted the priest, because he limps over to Keith, yelling him to step away from the lady.

Allura notices Keith's hand shakes as he renews his determination. The gunshot doesn't come. Lucky clover again. There's an intense feeling of gratitude in Allura that she wants to communicate to the priest but can only convey with a nervous gulp. Opening her eyes she finds the priest standing between her and the Black Paladin, arms stretched wide and obviously making an effort to keep them stretched.

"Lance, move," Keith says.

"You're the one who should move. You and I never met each other. I'm going to help the lady. Never come back, Keith, I don't want to see you anymore. I don't want more deaths because of me. God is always watching. Go and stop whatever fucked-up life you're living. Go!"

"What the fuck. I lived for you! These are the police and prosecution, Lance, the good-for-nothings that failed you-- failed me!"

"Keith. It's over."

"Nothing's over! We're here! Lotor's dead, so what? Nothing's over, not before we return to what we were before, not before we keep our promise. Remember? We had plans. We promised we'd live together. I came back for you. Please. Please." Keith's voice trembles slightly at the end.

"It's too late. Keith, I'm sworn to the Lord now. Go. And repent while you still can. You still can."

With an agonised shout Keith aims the gun at Lance and empties it on him. However, the bullets hit only the trees and Allura's car behind Lance. Keith swings a fist at Lance, who takes it on his cheek without even a grunt.

Keith doesn't look back as he leaves them.

They don't realise they're standing in a field of clovers. Somewhere in the patch must be clovers with more than three leaves, crushed beneath Keith's stomping loafers. Lucky clovers. And Allura's lucky clover, face scrunched with tears and snot.

* * *


End file.
